


Our Banner, Our Colors

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Healing, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Emotional Porn, Gay Sex, Georgian Period, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Made For Each Other, Magical Healing Cock, Military Kink, Miracles, Quickies, Soldiers, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: Aziraphale is an army medic on the Somme during WW1. Crowley is a strategist, stationed on the front line.This is a story of one night, during a strafe, when Aziraphale rushes to Crowley's side when he's injured and about to leave the humans behind to finish their war on their own. This is a night of shared comfort, of the relief of being there with your favorite person, and taking comfort when it is given.Basically warzone WW1 PWP with BAMF!Aziraphale and hurt, anxious Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Our Banner, Our Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I am not super familiar with army lingo so factual things may be off as I have most likely googled them. My apologies if anything seems off.  
Please enjoy this self indulgence, brought to you by my undying love for Parade's End and WW1/Georgian- era England.

It began, as it will end, with a kit bag squashed under Crowley's bony arse.

Captain A. Crowley of the 45th fusilier regiment at the front at Somme is currently having a quick and early dinner, sitting on his lumpy kit on the side of a pile of tilled earth. The lad who brought him the sandwich and tin mug of gritty black coffee is standing close by, waiting to be told what to do. There is gunfire on the other side of the mound, but otherwise all is quiet. 

Crowley chokes down the food and knocks back the coffee in a single swallow, listening begrudgingly to small talk. The boy's name is Woolworth. He's from Yorkshire, and didnt expect to last this long, sir. 

What Woolworth wants most, Crowley's senses are telling him, is to go home to his family's sprawling farm and find a nice girl to marry.

Crowley itches with it, this innate _need_ to give the boy what he wants bubbling like seltzer under his skin. But he can't exactly manage that sort of wish out here. 

The strafe begins right on time, shells falling only a few dozen yards shy of where they're sat. "Come on then, get your helmet on and get in." Crowley stands, slings his bag over his shoulder and waves at the kid, follows him into the labyrinth of trenches. He goes back to his shack office, buried underground; the boy no doubt takes up his gun and isn't too far away. He drew the short straw for guard duty today. 

The other two captains are already here, shouting over the whistling and explosions outside. Crowley clears his throat and steps up to the strategy board, whipping a stack of orders out of his kit.

"I think here, next. No?" He passes off the telegrams from Westminster and points to the enemy's mess tent. "Take out the supplies, starve them out?" A filthy look is thrown his way. 

"Look," Bunce growls, heavy jowls shaking. "Just because you're good at this doesnt mean we'll do anything so diabolical. There are rules to war, boy. You don't do more damage than is strictly necessary." 

Crowley frowns, glances around. "Starving out the enemy has long been practice in war. It's been a favorite well, _forever_, in fact. Because it _works_. Soldiers get hungry, get weak, give up, the battle's won. In a week, maybe, no less. Taking out the road," he grasps and moves a pawn, "would only make them build another road. Taking out their store houses and food and _then_ taking out the road is a much more decisive blow." 

The third captain (Marlowe, though Crowley doesnt much bother with names- their lives are short and will only be made shorter, here) narrows his eyes. "It's not bad. We aim for their trucks, that's another serious injury." 

"And what then? What if they decide our _hospital_ is a good target, next?!" Bunce is getting irate. "You break the rules of war, the only thing left is blind hatred and chaos." 

"I think the rules were broken a year or so ago when they started _gassing trenches,_" Crowley retorts. "We hit their food source, force their hand to either retreat or forfeit." He places the artillery shell on the enemy's mess tent on the board and sits back. 

Marlowe agrees and the order is given. 

It's the last thing Crowley does in this war, and it was a mistake. 

* * *

Dr Fell is elbow deep in gore, trying to remain calm amidst the absolute chaos of the hospital tent. Nurses are flying around him, bombs crack in the distance. The man beneath him has blacked out from pain and stress. 

He's a hopeless case anyway. Nothing but a miracle would put this bellow's organs back to rights and return the pints of blood he's lost. 

Aziraphale puts a hand on his forehead and guides the soul out peacefully. He has barely a second to blink and call the time of death before the next body is drawn before him on a stretcher. 

It has been this way for months. It has been getting worse each day for the last week. 

The battle of the Somme, as historians will come to call it, has been one of the bloodiest battles in human history. Clever, these humans. But bloodthirsty, too. 

Aziraphale begins work on removing shrapnel and stitching a gaping wound closed when a particularly loud crack vibrates the entire tent and earth around them. It nearly knocks him of his feet. Aziraphale blinks, looks around over the top line of his surgical mask and freezes completely. 

Crowley is gone. 

That red, furious little light he always has buzzing in the back of his mind had flickered with that explosion and suddenly snuffed out. 

What-- what does he _do_? What does Crowley do when he comes searching for him?? How can he focus on an energy that is simply _gone_? Aziraphale focuses, tries not to panic entirely. 

There.

It's back. _Inhale_.

It's gone. _Choke on the exhale_. 

Crowley is dying somewhere. Discorporating, at least. The blinking happens twice more with harrowing results for the angel, and then a loud crash sends nurses screeching and scrambling toward an officer who is bleeding profusely. He has knocked over several cabinets and an operating table, but he's on his feet, for now. His eyes are exposed, full yellow, wildly searching u til they land on Aziraphale and he collapses forward, staggering with a hand holding himself together below his shirt hem.

_It's_ _Crowley_. Aziraphale sucks in a ragged breath and runs forward, grabs his friend by the shoulders and hauls him up into a bridal carry. Crowley shouts in pain, goes immediately slack, and blacks out. 

_No matter_, Aziraphale thinks. He hones in on Crowley's officer's tent and walks out, flitting them there as soon as human eyes are elsewhere in the chaos. 

* * *

"Goodness sake. Crowley?! _CROWLEY_!!" He can hear a male voice screaming, near hysterical, somewhere near his left ear. The other is still ringing and deaf. Half of his body is on the wet earth, and he's wet, too, a mixture of rain, mud, and blood. The screaming has stopped, replaced by sharp breathing and cold hands. One is holding up his weight under his shoulders, pushing up his shirt and vest. The other is slapping his face, pulling his glasses off to toss them away, turn his cheek this way and that with a firm grip in his chin. 

Crowley grimaces and reaches a hand up to swat the nuisance away. 

"Stop that you idiot, I'm _helping_. Stay_ still!"_ Crowley frowns, feels the sharp slice of a sticky scab reopening on his forehead as he does so. 

"Nnngggk," he groans, arching away. The insistent helper follows, lays him out flat and then suddenly- warmer hands are on him and a burst of intense heat coats his body. 

Angelic healing. Crowley grunts his way thru it and cracks an eye open.

Aziraphale has left the hospital bay and is here, healing a demon who cannot spare the energy to heal himself anymore. 

Crowley opens his eyes fully and sees his only friend, bloodied and filthy and dishevelled as he is, kneeling over him. "_Angel_," he sighs, relaxing instantly. "Thought you were still ignoring me. You've done a fair job so far." 

"Yes well, ignoring you while I can still feel you _alive_ a few miles away is one thing. Feeling you flicker out for a few minutes is altogether another. You gave me quite the scare while you apparated yourself all over the damned area trying to get out of the fallout zone." There is a sharp pinch and slide under his ribs and then nothing. 

"Couldnt focus," Crowley hisses, sitting up with some effort. "Sssssorry." Aziraphale has pulled a long, jagged piece of metal from Crowley's ribs and is slowly sealing up the organs within, knitting the skin shut over it all. Crowley breathes raggedly and tries not to squirm. Angelic healing hurts a bit, too. Maybe it's their occult makeup, but demons don't take well to divine intervention. 

Crowley will put up with the sting regardless because-- well. It's _Aziraphale_. He's put up with worse to be further away than they are right now. He's very nearly in the angel's lap.

Aziraphale grimaces at the fixed, blank look on Crowley's face and tries to hurry. One last burst of singeing heat and the job is done. "You'll probably be sore for a bit, but that's quite a bit better if I do say so." 

"Yeah, thanks. Must've blacked out when I got here, I don't quite remember making it back, to be honest." Crowley is trying to struggle properly to his knees so he can get up on them and crawl onto his cot.

Instead, Aziraphale picks him up bodily as though he weighed little more than a book and sets him gracefully on the bed. Crowley freezes and stays where he's put, allows the angel to anxiously fuss over him. 

"Oh, dear boy you _didn't_. You appeared in my hospital tent and crashed through the surgery. I brought you here to take attention off the fact that I had to miracle you back to life, almost literally. You very nearly discorporated, putting all that effort into trying to _escape_ instead of _healing yourself_." Aziraphale frowns mightily at him and then settles his face into that annoying mask of superiority. "I had to, don't you see. After all, who knows who they'd send up to replace you. Better the devil you know, and all that." He pissily snaps his clothes clean of demon blood (and probably that of a few humans, too) and moves to leave. 

Crowley darts a hand out and catches his sleeve cuff, a faint discouraging sound escaping him. "Don--uh... You dont need to go quite yet. Help me pack?" 

"Pack? Dear boy, where on earth will you _go_? Everyone is at war." 

"Not for much longer now, the Americans are on their way. Which means more food and supplies and... well everything, really. The Hun will give in within a few weeks." 

"Hmm," Aziraphale sighs, sitting down beside Crowley on the narrow, flimsy cot. It shudders beneath them but holds steady if they don't squirm. 

"It's this sort of shit that makes you feel alone in the whole world, innit?" Crowley sighs, reaching down stiffly for his kit. It's smeared with blood and dirt. He snaps it clean and waves a hand at the small room, gathering the few clothes he brought here to himself. 

"Yes, though I suppose we two are always alone, in a sense." 

"Hm. Until we're together again, of course. At least, well. When we're speaking, that is." 

Aziraphale watches as the demon folds his few possessions of black fabric and stuffs it in the shoulder bag. He leaves out one shirt and some trousers, peels off his bloodied rags without much concern for the other being beside him (or modesty). Aziraphale sucks in a breath and straightens, glancing away. He blinks and looks back, favoring the lean dips and shadows thrown by sharp bone structure, the tuft of auburn hair at his sternum and armpit. A narrow line of it trails further down his concave belly, turning dark at the button of Crowley's woolen army trousers. He clears his throat as Crowley drops the shirt on the grass floor and reaches for his trousers to do the same. 

"So, back to London then?" 

"Nah. Well, maybe. Gotta tie up some loose ends, y'know. Probably keep my head down for a bit though. Hell's not gonna be pleased with me ditching, but then again they don't know I'm wearing khaki 'n green 'stead of _feldgrau_, so." He shrugs and pulls a black thermal Henley over his shoulders with a wince. His muscles are still tight, still sore. "You?" 

"Well, I-- I should get back. To the trauma wing, that is." He stares blankly at the flap of the tent. They are both so used to bombshells by now they're deaf to the crack of them in the distance. He can feel Crowley staring at the side of his head and this desperate twist in his ribcage tightens anew. 

"Eh, you can only do so much without miracles, angel. Plenty of humans need you at home, too. You could be knocking bombs off course over London, instead of trying to piece someone back together by hand here." Crowley snaps his glasses back into repair and slips them on. He peers over the top ledge of them at the angel. 

"What." Aziraphale frowns and fidgets. He is still visibly upset and working over how he wants to proceed. That is: to leave or to admit to something he's been carefully squashing down for centuries. 

"Come home with me," Crowley implores quietly. He shrugs it, really, one hand on the kit between his ankles and the other on his knee, jutting his elbow and shoulders at awkward angles. 

Aziraphale, predictably, splutters. "I-- wha-- what? Home? To your--?" 

Crowley rolls his eyes. "London, angel. Go back to your shop, let me go back to my flat. Be in the same city, safe as houses. Away from all this." 

"But I was _sent_-" 

"Who gives a shit? You've saved a lot of humans, I'm sure. What was the assignment?" 

"To help at the front. Pretty open-ended. Yours?" 

"To be a walk on strategist, cause as much chaos as possible. They werent specific to which side _so I chose one_," Crowley sneers, baring his teeth a little at Aziraphale's dubious glance to his green overcoat. 

"Well. At least we're on the _same_ side for once," Aziraphale says primly.

"Were, angel. I'm leaving. You should, too. You did your part, and I'm glad you were here." Crowley says more gently. "Shall I say thank you?" He stands abruptly and stuffs himself viciously into his overcoat. After a moment's consideration, frowning down at the iconic green wool he snaps and it becomes black. It'll be easier to hide among the gentry in London this way. 

Aziraphale still looks terribly nervous and upset. He's wringing his hands like he does before he's about to lash out. Crowley takes it as his cue to step back, ease off. He nods at the ground and scoops up his bag. 

"Look--" 

"I was terribly _worried_, you see. Don't you-- why dont you understand that's why I won't give you the-- the _water_? Your little _insurance_ that will allow you to leave me here, forever. I'm only here because of you, Crowley. They only let me _stay here_ because we're a good match! You report that I keep you on your toes, I do the same, nothing goes too terribly awry and we're _left alone_." 

"Angel--" 

"I don't want to get sent back! Or be stuck here with no _you_ to contend with!" Aziraphale has stepped closer, his hands worrying at the front placket of Crowley's coat now. Crowley swallows and scrambles to say something, but-

"You don't want to be up here without me, or have to go back, right?" Aziraphale tumbles the words out, as if saying them normally would prevent them from coming out at all. 

"Ri-- yeah, 'course, angel. I wouldn't. Wouldnt do anything that takes me away from you. Or vice-versa. But--"

"Would you just, just-j-!" Aziraphale's hands grip his coat. He yanks Crowley forward by the lapels until their faces meet, mouths crushing together in a near-hysterical kiss that has Crowley reeling. 

"Ang--!" He tries, leaning his head back but Aziraphale follows, clutching the demon to him with a hand at the back of his neck and the other around his trim waist. He is effortlessly pinning, overpowering in so many ways. Crowley gives in and lets his spine go soft, allowing himself to curve against the angel and into his strong hold. "What do you want?" He mutters this eventually, with teeth against his throat. Aziraphale cups Crowley to him even tighter, shoves the coat off his shoulders and starts eyeing the room for good places to bend the demon over. 

There is nothing here save for a hammock-style cot that will absolutely not hold them both (and offers little stability anyway) a single stick-and-canvas pop up laundry bin for a pile of soiled green clothing, and the damp, cold earth beneath their boots. He shoves Crowley down onto it and reaches for the kit bag, stuffed soft with clothes. Something hard slaps against his chest between them, inside the inner pocket of Crowley's overcoat.

He'll investigate later. 

For now, Crowley is eagerly clutching at the back of the angel's neck and panting into the hollow space of his throat as Aziraphale works their belts open with a distinct air of desperation and elbows his way between Crowley's knees. 

It's quick and needy, this sharp, knee-deep necessity to assure yourself that you aren't _alone_ taking over what should be (in Aziraphale's opinion, anyway) a soft and loving exploration.

The bombs are still cracking away, still vibrating the earth under Aziraphale's knees as he drags Crowley's trousers down under his arse and sets the lean curve of it back on that plush kit bag between his own plump, spread thighs. Crowley falls fully to his back, overcoat spread beneath him, the panels of it as wide and wanton as his thighs. He slides his arms out of the coat and yanks at Aziraphale's belt. The angel slaps his hands away and shoves his own breeches down enouvh to tug his cock out and runs a trembling hand over them both held together in his fist. Aziraphale is taken with the expanse of golden skin beneath him and bends double, palming them both as he noses under the drawn-up hem of Crowley's shirt. His mouth latches onto one brown-tinged nipple and sucks. 

Crowley bucks up with a strangled sound and reaches, running hands over Aziraphale's forearms and sides, into his hair, anything he can reach while their hips do the desperate talking for them. He tucks his fingers into the pockets of the angel's knees and keeps him close, traps him there by some imaginary threshold. 

But Aziraphale started this. He isnt going anywhere, yet. "Oh, darling. Crowley, you--" he thrusts, running a thumb over the leaking heads of their cocks. Crowley's thighs start to close in reaction, the sharp feel of himself in Aziraphale's hand nearly too much to bear. "Do you w-" 

"Yes, angel, _yes please_." Crowley snaps and there is a pot of petroleum jelly in his hand. He passes it down and Aziraphale makes quick use of the stuff. He rubs a pat of it into their cocks, another into Crowley's entrance as the demon tries to steady his breathing and relax. 

They don't have _time for this_. Neither of them can focus enough to protect the tent from a bombshell if it chooses to fall on their heads. 

Someone could walk in at any second. 

Someone above or below could appear beside them in a blink. 

Then again, neither of them can focus enough to care, exactly now. But Crowley squeezes his eyes and concentrates enough to ward the area for a small window of time. He growls against the angel's temple, hands fisting in the collar of a white surgeon's coat. 

"In, angel. That's enough, I can take it," Crowley hisses, hitching up his arse onto the kit again for leverage. The damp is soaking into his overcoat, into his shirt which is rucked up under his armpits. Aziraphale lets out a shaky, desperate sort of exhale and nods, tossing the pot down and inching closer. 

"Breathe in," he says down at Crowley, suddenly the expert, and Crowley obeys as the fat head of Aziraphale's pink cock begins to split him. He lets a weak, throaty groan escape as Aziraphale presses inexorably inward until the handslength of him is seated inside. "Okay?" The angel asks, breathy as he leans down and covers Crowley fully with his body. 

Crowley nods and hooks his heels over the angel's shoulders, long legs tangled about the knees pressed between their chests. He is folded in half, his lower back on his kit and legs going up the length of their torsos. It's the exact sort of cramped comfort he likes. 

Aziraphale noses into the neckline of Crowley's shirt and begins to move, drawing out and then quickly jerking back in. Crowley see stars and moves one leg to curl around Aziraphale's side, then the other. He snakes a hand between their bellies, holding himself at the base as he tries to catch his breath. He's already incredibly close, the heady combination of adrenaline and aching desire thrumming through his very human body making for a headlong dive over the edge. 

"Fuck," he exhales, teeth bared at the ceiling, neck arching to make room for a pale-haired head to nibble up the golden length of it. "Never been _quite_ this desperate, have you?" 

"You've never been that close to-- _aaah-_\- to discorporating. Got my attention," Aziraphale grinds out, adjusting their hips until Crowley whimpers and his thighs clench tighter on either side of the angel's belly.

In and out hypnotically, Aziraphale thrusts harder each time and takes a patch of skin between his teeth above Crowley's collarbone. He hooks an elbow under on narrow, knobby knee and hitches up on one side, angles Crowley's hips again to hit that tender aberration inside with each brutal thrust in and all too soon Crowley is coming with a choked sob, pulling the angel down closer to him by the neck before he's even done spilling between their bellies. Aziraphale turns his head to match their mouths together and licks inside. Croeley flinches like an apology when he flicks his tongue over sharp incisors. 

"C'mon, angel. _Inside_, for me now. Certainly taking your time."

"Shut up," Aziraphale grits, adjusting them for the deepest, surest thrusts. Crowley grins against Aziraphale's mouth and let's himself be manhandled until the angel is satisfied and then, with only a few more erratic thrusts, a wet heat makes itself known and Aziraphale is panting into his breast pocket his forehead smashed sweaty and wild-haired into the demon's bony shoulderfront.

"Oh good lord." 

"Don't start. I've warded the tent. Relax a minute, we'll be okay." 

"No, Crowley, what I-- H_ell's teeth_, what if they come looking to chastise you for leaving the front and. _Smell me on you?_ Something. I-- I can't be _here_ worrying about you all the way back in London. Stay," he says, ironically pulling away with a wince. 

"You'll write," Crowley sighs, struggling to sit. He waves and their mess dissolves into the air. "I'll write back."

"_Write_." Aziraphale scoffs. 

"Hasn't stopped you before. Look. I'll hide. 'M good at that, at least." 

Aziraphale gives Crowley a withering glare and stands, righting his trousers and hospital garb. He reaches out and helps the demon to his feet, helps him drag his trousers back up. Crowley pulls his shirt down and bends to retrieve his coat, only a slight cringe as he motion twinges the tenderized muscles in his arse and the still-healing ones in his torso. 

_Worth it. _

He shakes out the overcoat and grass and damp earth falls off it instantly. It's clean again in a blink, and he dons it, aware of blue riverbed eyes on his back as he does. 

"What is that?" Aziraphale points to the hard rectangle in the inner breast pocket which hit him earlier. 

Crowley stills, hesitates, but relents. Same as always. "Letters," he sighs. 

"Letters?" The angel prompts, steps closer and reaches inside. Crowley only fights him in that he starts to step back and then doesnt quite manage it. 

"Yeah," he scratches the back of his neck as Aziraphale's eyes drop wide, thumbing through the stack. "Uhh--"

"Crowley, you're meant to burn these! You can't keep them, especially _on your person_!" Suddenly Aziraphale is wound tight again, just as anxious as before their tryst.

"Angel, don't. Please?" Crowley's voice is small, pleading. He's watching the angel sift through the stack, tracing his own neat script on each vellum envelope. They don't use names, but the scent is easy enough to pick up on. 

"You _can't have these_, dear boy. What if they come sniffing around?" 

"Then I'll bloody well burn them, and not a second before." Crowley snatches them back, carefully furling the stack back into his pocket. "Take it to mean you burn mine, then?" 

"Well-- yes. Some of them. I have a few, er--well...stashed away. And the feather." Aziraphale suddenly looks terrified, eyes darting up and then over his shoulder. A nasty explosion shakes the ground beneath their feet. "It's in a lockbox in the bookshop safe." 

Crowley grimaces and nods, staring hard at the ground. He shoulders the kit bag and manifests some glasses. When they're in place he glances up, eyes more than a little wet behind dark lenses. "Stay safe, angel. Write if you like. I'll check that nifty little pocket of ours for deliveries." He sniffs and steps away, walls rebuilding between them. 

"I-- yes, alright. Stay safe, my dear. I'll certainly write. Don't keep them on you, when you get home, please. At the very least hide them away." 

Crowley nods and lifts a hand, and he's gone in a flutter of wings and displaced air. 

Aziraphale, bereft and nervy, returns to the surgery tent. 


End file.
